


Ace of Spades

by Seruitutem



Category: Devil May Cry, Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Cop Shenanigans, Descriptions of death and corpses, Explicit Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seruitutem/pseuds/Seruitutem
Summary: Marriage meant relocating to the south. The end of the outbreaks meant his involvement in them was made public. For some, it garnered admiration. For others, envy and distaste. The former bodyguard for the president just wanted to live his days with his new family in relative peace. Instead, someone is out to destroy all that. Leon Kennedy's only hope is to put an end to it before it ends him.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> First time publishing on AO3. First time writing for these fandoms, too. Thank you for reading, it's greatly appreciated.

     Thank goodness for Kevlar and thermal undershirts. Two hours into an investigation, a discovery of a body in a meat cooler, his ears and fingertips were successfully numb, and the tip of his nose hurt. He'd only recently gotten used to the perpetual heat of Texas, standing around in a meat freezer may have just undone all that.   
     "CCTV footage blacked out between five forty-five and six, based on decomp and frost patterns on the body, there's no question that's the window it was placed here." The state trooper's voice was gruff and low, in an accent that spoke more N'awlins than San Antonio. "We got someone reviewing data and access logs, and another running diagnostics to eliminate any chance of tampering with the feed." His name was Brody, pushing forty, and pleasantly cooperative. Leon was a Yank, hailing from New York state, he'd already been met with more than a little animosity from the local force. Just another hoighty-toighty Northern badge to boss the cast of Deliverance around with his quick words and Big Apple attitude. At least, that's the feeling he got from them.   
     "Med team is here," a younger cadet poked his head into the cooler. Officer Brody nodded, and the cadet disappeared.   
     "Ready when you are," Leon said.  
     Brody gave another nod, heading for the exit. "I dunno about you, but my boys are no bigger than raisins," he guffawed, and Leon barely hid a grimace.          "I'm getting too old for these types of murders. Weirdos who turn it into a big production, show-offs."  
     "Makes it easier for them to fuck up, after a few bodies, they get impatient, hasty. Too eager for the big reveal, they rush, they slip."  
     "Well, let's just hope this fucker slips sooner, rather than later."  
     "They will. This one's not as slick as they think."  
     Brody shrugged. "The feed?"  
     Leon nodded, shaking his hands. Fingertips were still cold, but now that they were both back in the heat, he could feel them starting to throb. "Shit like this only works in movies. The big baddie toys with camera footage to avoid being seen. Cops are stumped because they don't have a face to put with the crime. Then, they find some silent, tragic hero who hates working with teams, but he makes friends at the last minute and the power of love helps him solve the entire mystery." He scoffed. "Even kids on YouTube know the basics of editing videos. If an external device was used to edit out those fifteen minutes, pinging the IP will be easy."  
     "What if-"  
     "If they used a proxy? Doesn't matter. We know they're local. They're too familiar with the area to be a drifter. We can still find out what they were doing before dumping the device. Nothing tells me they were smart enough to wipe their drives or purge browsing history. Even a smashed laptop can tell us what we need."  
     "And if they fucked with the feed through office terminals?"  
     "Keystrokes. Find a pattern. If it was a hacker, we can find out. If they weren't hacking, then we'd know they hold passcodes to access security protocol for this building. This isn't a movie, people don't just guess what a password is and get it."  
     "Our tech department should get on this." Brody already had his radio in hand. Leon's phone chirped, and he took that opportunity to leave the officer's company.   
     Three unread texts. One was a notification, auto-pay from the gym. The other two were from Dante.  
      _11:43pm Dante: Get home._  
 _11:44pm Dante: Now._  
     Leon could only heave a sigh. The last time he received texts like that, Nero had nearly set the kitchen on fire. The kid had inherited pyromania from somewhere down Dante's bloodline. Leon checked the time, only three minutes had passed since the texts were sent. He would arrive home in time for Dante to have finished temporary repairs, and for Nero to concoct some story to explain the mess. Such was married life with children. Or rather, married life with a devil and his spawn. No clue who Nero's mother was, the boy was every inch a near direct clone of Dante, even had the beginnings of the same potty mouth. Teenagers.  
     His duties were done, he signed off on his company laptop, and began homeward. The ranch style homestead he shared with his family was settled at the end of a dirt road, no neighbors within walking, or shouting, distance. Peaceful and pleasantly isolated. It was for that reason concern set in when he spotted flashing lights at the end of the road. His parking spot in the driveway was taken by one cruiser, another two were on the lawn. A K9 unit blocked the rest of the road just before the turn into the drive. Fuck.  
     He abandoned his own car behind the K9, walking briskly to the walkway at the front of the house. Nero stood there, shoulders hunched. Instead of embarrassed, he looked apprehensive, even a little afraid. Next to him was his stone-faced father, both were watching the roaming officers closely. Leon hated how unreadable Dante could be. How bad was the damage? Bad enough to warrant a call to the authorities. But where were the first responders? The firetruck? There hadn't been a fire, not this time. It reeked of pettiness, the same petty bullshit he left in New York. The famed survivor of at least three outbreaks didn't go by without at least a few protesters.   
     Nero met Leon's eyes as he approached, fear now apparent. Alarms began ringing. Nero was never scared, not by a damn thing. His father had a forty year career slaying the unholy, Nero knew better than to be scared. Of monsters, Leon thought. Humans have the capability to be so much worse than any demon. He, himself, had a good few years putting the real monsters behind bars.   
      _So why were there members of his own department crawling around his property?_   
     Leon focused his attention to the nearest officer, walking right in his path, demanding his attention in turn. The officer finally looked up, eyes flashing. "Ah, officer Kennedy," he drawled, corners of his mouth twitching in an attempt to hide a smirk. "We were just about to radio you. Yes, we have a warrant-"  
     "For what?"   
     The officer, Parsons, stiffened. "We had an anonymous tip, and without a lawyer present, it's best if we both don't go into it." Bastard. Leon knew the rules. He'd been doing this since before Parsons' balls had even dropped. His expression must have mirrored his thoughts, for Parsons actually leaned away, brows raised.   
     "Get the fuck off of my property," he found himself growling. " _Fuck_ your warrant, and _fuck_ your tip. You aren't going to find jack-shit here, and you know it. Plant anything, and I'll have your ass in a goddamn sling in front of the Supreme Court." He was untouchable, and they all knew it. His work in the higher government had earned him immunity, and he used it to the full advantage, but he was untouchable.   
     Parsons' browns furrowed, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Leon immediately cut him off. "No. Leave. Now." Parsons glared, but complied, turning swiftly to shout at his team. Leon knew they'd try to fabricate a case with what they had, if anything at all. He left New York for the same reasons. This time, however, he'd made sure to keep the place immaculate. They'd be picking their brains for days before realizing they had nothing.  
In turn, Leon faced his family, looking to Dante for any explanation. Still no readable expression, even those ice blue eyes were empty. Nero glanced up at him.  
     "Dad-"  
     Dante finally broke the mask, snapping his stare to his son, eyes narrowed, jaw set. His universal sign for ' _shut the fuck up_ '. The alarms in Leon's head went from bells to full-blown sirens. Dante never told Nero to shut the fuck up, no one did. Nero quieted, swallowing hard, and Dante faced Leon again.  
     "Ain't no fuckin' anonymous tip. Warrant's bullshit. They came here lookin' fer somethin', and I dunno the fuck it is." Dante's accent was normally more restrained, but when he was upset, he spoke just like the boys from the backwoods. "None of my devil arms are here. They trashed the place lookin' fer 'em, I'm guessin'."   
     "Why?"  
     "We both know why."  
     Leon's history, quite literally, saving the world from what Umbrella had started, Dante's history, also literally, saving the world from the dregs of Hell. Though, Leon used his immunity, abused his position, to keep Dante's career in the underground. Still, that didn't guarantee someone with the clearance hadn't leaked anything from those files. Crooked cops were everywhere, cops eager to boost their ego and advance their careers, and willing to fuck over anyone and everyone to do so. Wesker had been a prime example.   
     If Dante's files had been leaked, and Leon's involvement in hiding them were brought to light, Leon figured the amount of counts against them both would lead to life without parole. Dante's bounty hunting could easily be twisted into whatever crime the feds felt like claiming, accusing Leon of obstruction of justice in hiding evidence, and even a willing partner in crime.  
     The last cruiser peeled away, and only then did Leon's shoulders slump. He ran a hand over his face, fingers ending up knotted in his hair. "Fuck." He kicked at the stoop. " _Fuck._ " His fingers twitched, itching for a cigarette. If Dante ended up lighting up within the next thirty seconds, he was taking one, too. Such a bad habit, both of them picked it up not long ago, before they moved and married. Drowning in whiskey would have taken Leon's job, and smoking on the clock was just a little less frowned upon. Leon had been able to quit fairly easily once he was relocated to San Antonio, but if Texas came with the same array of petty co-workers, he'd be willing to bet cash money he'd end up a pack a day smoker by Tuesday.   
     "C'mon. House ain't gonna clean itself up." Dante rested a hand on Nero's head, giving the boy a comforting tousle of the hair, all the while his eyes were still trained on Leon.  
     "Yeah. Gimme a moment." He reached around Nero and to Dante's back pocket, fumbling with the half crushed pack of cigarettes he always kept there.          Alone in the front lawn, nothing more than the sounds of spring peepers and cicadas, it was almost eerie. Five minutes ago, a handful of his own co-workers were going through his house as if he were hiding black tar heroin in his sock drawer. In their absence, he had nothing left to do but let his mind run through the many possibilities that the morning held. He lit up, and tried not to think about it.   
     When he eventually forced himself to step into the house, he found Dante leaning on the doorway in the foyer, fresh pack of smokes in his back pocket, fifth cigarette between his teeth. The living room was already picked up, broken items dumped into a trashcan. Thankfully, the Faberge egg Dante had inherited from his mother was not among them. Heads would roll, otherwise. "Keep 'em," Dante drawled, not facing Leon. "Got a feelin' you'll wanna." He sounded as exhausted as Leon felt. "Nero's room wasn't bad, just threw his clothes everywhere."  
     "Good."  
     "Trashed the absolute shit out of ours, though."  
     "Fuck's sake."  
     "I'll clean up tomorrow. T'night's been enough horseshit t' last the year." He stubbed out his cigarette in the cheap plastic ashtray in his other hand. "Pull-out's gonna have t' do fer t'night."  
     "Mhmm," Leon watched Dante set the ashtray down and shove the coffee table aside before turning down the hallway. Their room was the true target. They fucked around in Nero's room to camouflage their intent. They knew exactly what they were doing. The thoughts made each step quicker than the last, and he burst through the ajar door of their shared bedroom.The mattress was off the frame and against the wall. Paintings in a haphazard pile on the floor. Every drawer of the dresser was out and emptied. Their clothing covering every inch of their cherry-wood floor. The closet lay wide open. He rushed to it, pulling out a jumbled bunch of empty plastic hangers and Dante's wadded up red leather coat. Shit. Shitshitshit-  
     The built-in wall safe was empty.  
     The safe where he kept the L. Hawk that Redfield had given him, after his expedition to Africa. The very same expedition that had left Albert Wesker permanently dead. The last expedition Chris went on, before disappearing entirely for a year.  
     "Shit!" Leon slammed the palm of his hand against the wall beside the safe, and Dante was there in a flash. "We have a big fucking problem," Leon told him, standing aside. Dante's eyes followed Leon's pointing finger, anger flashing through those brilliant blues. The Mystery of the Search Warrant was solved.  
     " _Motherfuck_!" Leon kicked a pile of clothing, a hand roughly combing his hair out of his eyes."It wasn't your devil arms. It was never your devil arms- why the fuck would they take my gun?" It was Wesker's gun originally. A remnant of the biggest tyrant the world had ever produced, but why would the San Antonio police department want it bad enough to get a search warrant signed against one of their own?  
     Too-warm hands grasped Leon's shoulders, squeezing them in comfort. "Freakin' out ain't gonna find a solution," Dante was right. Leon was only going to work himself up, he wouldn't be able to think straight. "We don't know exactly why they were here, if it wasn't fer my devil arms. That gun coulda been evidence fer something completely unrelated t' me."  
     "If so, then I _need_ to be in the know. Wesker has been dead for years, but if there's even a chance what he started could start again, I have to be there, and if not me, then Chris. Last I knew, he was retired." Redfield was nearly as old as Dante, his last mission had killed his sniper, nearly killed him. "But why-" He pulled out of Dante's grasp, hands in the air in exasperation. "Why all the trouble to lie to me, trash our house, to get to the goddamned gun? That's what I don't understand, Dante. If this is even loosely linked to Umbrella or the Wesker Project, why the secrecy? I mean- I had to shoot the last president because he turned, it's not as if anyone can hide the fact that it happened, and who was behind it anymore."  
     Dante pulled Leon to his chest, standing at a whole head taller, and Leon found comfort in it. He sagged in the embrace, held up easily by thick, powerful arms, arms covered in a myriad of colored inks. He hadn't had any when they first met. Back in 2004, right after Leon came back from Spain. Dante had bought Leon a coffee because he 'looked like a got-dang corpse' and promptly asked him for drinks later that night. Thirteen years later saw them married, and raising Nero.   
     "Report the gun missing t'night, before anyone gets the chance t' use it against you. N' git some goddamn sleep."

     The pullout bed was smaller than their king-sized, but it wasn't too uncomfortable. Dante, after a few beers, had passed out mere minutes after turning out the light. Silvery hair in his eyelashes, a beautiful contrast to his dark skin, he slept so calmly at times, it was hard to believe his waking moments were spent battling the hordes of the underworld. Hell, it was sometimes hard to believe he was technically one of them, through Sparda's bloodline, he looked so human when he slept. Leon often stayed awake to study him. The only tell of his age were how far his eye sockets had sunk, but that could also be explained by the lack of sleep Dante suffered years prior. He bore no wrinkles, no sunspots, no indication of the wear and tear his body normally endured day to day. Just smooth skin, it's perfection only interrupted by the pieces of metal through his lip and eyebrow. The newest addition was a thin gold ring through his left nostril.   
     It was almost unfair how youthful Dante looked at fifty-five years old. He was twenty years Leon's senior, he often had to remind himself. After Leon had convinced him to shave off that god-awful stubble, and cleaning up his own jawline, they both looked years younger. Leon had found the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, however. Stress was aging him prematurely. That fact only served to bring about the fear of dying. He had come awfully close many times, the first instance when he was only twenty-one, fresh out of the academy, and thrust into the nightmare that was Raccoon City. The fear of death hadn't been that prominent after then, he was serving the president, it was in the job description that he could die at any given moment. He didn't care as much. He was alone then, just a tool of the government, meant to lay his life down to save those of the president and his family. With a family of his own, if he were to die tomorrow, Dante and Nero were vulnerable.   
     Leon shifted to lay on his back, both hands over his eyes. Being an insomniac sucked. His thoughts went wild when the rest of the world was asleep, when Dante couldn't distract him. Thankfully, before he could send himself deeper into that pit of pessimism, his cell phone buzzed.   
     He snatched it up, relieved when Dante only muttered and turned over. He slipped out of bed and to the next room. A text, from special agent Connelly.   
      _3:14am Why the fuck would they want your gun?_  
     Good, he wasn't the only person with that question. The officer he'd reported his missing gun to had sounded uninterested, so he messaged Connelly. Bridgette Connelly had worked with him back in New York, and who'd stood by him through the rumors that'd driven him to relocate.  
      _3:15am Call me if you can, I need to hear this._  
     Leon grabbed the near empty pack of cigarettes from the counter and ventured to the backyard. He lit up while he dialed, and the phone only rang once before Connelly picked up.  
     "Did you physically see the warrant they had?" Was her first question.  
     "No," he admitted. "I wasn't in the best mindset to think logically. Just told them to scram."  
     "Goddamnit, Leon. You know how it goes. That warrant could have told you exactly what you need to know-"  
     "Warrants don't always list explicit reasons for a search and seizure, especially if they don't know exactly what they're looking for."  
     "True, but still, you should have asked to see it." She paused, "If the missing gun isn't meant to benefit a legitimate case, then what does it benefit? The president himself backs you, everyone in the White House does. Some small-time county department has no authority to even try pinning something on you."  
     "I'm well aware of my immunity, but that immunity doesn't extend to my family. If the missing gun isn't related to The Wesker Project, or to what's left of Neo-Umbrella, then what?"  
     A frustrated sigh was the only answer. "I'll never understand why everyone is so hell-bent on ruining your credibility and reputation, Leon. You saved the entire world four years ago. You and your band of true heroes. Did you know Chris entered a form of witness protection, just to avoid the press? Entire news outlets are trying to defame all of you, to downplay those outbreaks."  
     "Just like the government did to Raccoon City."  
     "Right. Only this time, you actually have government support. I can only hope they place a gag order soon. Chris- you all have been through enough."  
     "Chris watched Piers die because of Neo-Umbrella. They're not just fucking with us, they're disgracing those who died to prevent civilian casualties."  
     "Mhm."  
     "What's worse, if the San Antonio police department is doing what I'm thinking they're doing, they're about to attempt the biggest abuse of power I've ever seen in all my years on the police force, all in the name of what, exactly? It can't just be pettiness driving them to act like this."  
     "I wish I knew, Leon. I also wish you didn't have to move all the way to Texas, I have a feeling you could use more than just a phone call right about now."   
     "No kidding. Could use a drink." Or twelve. Leon hadn't been an alcoholic, not like Dante was, but booze did help him relax, and sleep."I don't expect you to do anything about this, it's entirely out of your reach, but-" he finished his cigarette in one long drag. "I do appreciate you listening. That alone helps."  
     "You're welcome, Leon. I really am sorry you have to go through all this shit. Half the world thinks of you as a hero, the other half thinks you're crazy, but your friends, all of us, we've got your back. Helena still thinks she owes you."  
     "No one owes me a thing, and the support is appreciated. That's all that needs to be said."  
     "Gotcha, no heroics needed. Anywhoo, thanks for giving me a call, my shift is nearly over, and I'm pretty sure you should get some sleep before yours starts. Call me if you need to talk again, okay?"  
     "Yeah. Will do. G'night."  
     Phone in hand, he glanced skyward, contemplating one more cigarette before trying to sleep. He expected to feel better after the phone call, but he only felt tense. A sense of dread tugged at his nerves. He lit one more cigarette, inhaled deeply, and sent the smoke towards the stars. He didn't feel tired, but he knew he needed to sleep, like Connelly advised. If he went into work exhausted later, it'd be that much easier for anything vital to slip past him. Anything regarding the missing Desert Eagle, he needed to know about.  
     Dante hadn't moved an inch the entire time he was outside. Leon took it as an invitation to press his spine to Dante's chest, soaking in his ungodly warmth through their clothing, and let it lull him into sleep.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late note to specify, this is indeed post-games. Creative liberty was taken, and lightly abused. Another note to warn for descriptions of panic attacks in this chapter.

     One more, he checked the closet. Every article of clothing tossed out, hangers thrown aside, he even ran his hands over the floor and along the siding, desperately hoping to find what he knew wouldn't be there. The safe was still empty, its vacant cavity mocking him, 'sucks to be you, doesn't it?' He sat back on his heels, and sighed heavily. "It really does suck to be me right now," he agreed aloud. ""Why would they fucking take it? Hell, how'd they even know it was there?"

     A sudden metallic click snapped him out of his thoughts. He was far too familiar with fireams to mistake that sound for anything but-

     He sowly turned, greeted by the barrel of the L. Hawk that should have been locked away in that safe. His eyes traveled along the barrel, to the gloved hand wrapped around the grip, up the arm and to the face of his soon-to-be assailant. He felt his heart seize within his chest, he saw his own face pale in the reflection of dark lenses, he knew he only had mere seconds left to live as Albert Wesker grinned down at him. 

     "Why? You should have known why the very second you asked the first time." 

     "You're dead," he could barely hear himself over the pounding of his heart, it seemed to throb all the way through his bones.

     "Is that what you believed? That Chris finally put an end to me?" Wesker's laugh was dry, angry. "How unfortunate you weren't there to see for yourself; Chris failed in _confirming_ me dead. If only he were as thorough in that as he was in watching his subordinate die. Although," he chambered a round. "He won't need to be here to confirm your death. No one will have to, your coroner will only need to scrape your brains off the wall." His aim was impeccable, Leon reminisced, one bullet, square between the eyes, hitting the small dip right above the bridge of his nose. That's all it'd take. "You all forgot one important detail. I was _bred_ for perfection."

     Leon jerked awake before the gun could fire, his heart pounding furiously against his ribs. The sudden jolt of his body must have woken Dante, the near searing heat of his palm met Leon's clammy shoulder, " _Yer awake, baby_." His voice was muddled, both from grogginess and from the now swimming sensation flooding Leon's head. He jerked his arm away, clawing the blankets from his body. His pulse refused to slow, his head pounded, and everything touching his body was spiraling downward into overstimulation. _Stop, fucking stop_. Was he even saying it aloud? Dante was attentive then, sitting up. He was speaking, but Leon didn't hear anything, couldn't hear anything.

     Unsteady legs rocketed him to the bathroom, and he barely had time to lean over before his stomach clenched dangerously. Bile splashed into the toilet bowl, dotting the rim. He made a noise akin to grinding machinery, painful and it shook him down to his bones. He had emptied himself the first time, but his body hadn't seemed to catch on. He was still retching when Dante appeared. He was still speaking, and the words still buzzed, as if coming from a bad signal. Leon tried to listen through the rushing in his ears. The world began to fade at the edges, curling like a burning photograph. 

     "Breathe!" Dante's voice became suddenly clear, hands gripping at Leon's biceps. It was like coming up for breath from the bottom of the ocean, his lungs burned and his ribs ached. The world cleared then, and he realized the rushing in his ears was his pulse, alarmingly fast. He fell against Dante, knees gone weak. " _I gotchu, I gotcha babe,_ " Dante's voice was gentle, assuring, his grip softening. The old devil held Leon to his chest, quietly assuring him that he was okay. Leon clung to him like a lifeline, focusing on his voice, his touch, until his head stopped swimming and his heart stopped pounding. His legs were still shaky, and his hands had gone numb, but he was grounded again. 

     Dante was no stranger to those moments. Often, Leon found himself on the other side of those episodes, cradling Dante's face in his hands, praying those brilliant blue eyes would focus again, internally begging Dante to come back to him. Dante was a devil, but he had a horde of personal demons at his back, and his inhuman strength couldn't keep them at bay forever. Bottles upon bottles of Jameson and Jack Daniels couldn't silence them for long. His very reflection was a constant reminder of his sins, of the blood on his hands. The piercings and tattoos were his pathetic attempt at turning his reflection away from Vergil. It hadn't worked.

     Leon's demons came in the form of decomposing civilians, of bespectacled tyrants and exposed muscle and veins. He hadn't had a nightmare in almost a year, a repireve he realized he'd taken for granted. All it took to bring them back- a missing gun, a gun that had once belonged to a dead man. Of all specters to haunt his sleep, it just had to be Albert fucking Wesker. How Chris was able to walk away, _twice,_ from the bastard, he'd never be able to understand.

     "Y'alright?" Dante combed his fingers through Leon's hair, his cheek pressed to Leon's forehead. "Ain't had one this bad in a minute."

     "M'fine," Leon slurred in response, suddenly aware of how disgusting his mouth tasted. He pushed against Dante, thankful that he didn't immediately collapse, and lurched to the sink. "It's just stress getting to me." He squeezed out a liberal amount of toothpaste onto his toothbrush and shoved it into his mouth. He glanced at the mirror, catching Dante's expression in the reflection, then looked away. He felt himself wither a little under Dante's stare. He knew making excuses was useless. Dante knew everything Leon had somehow survived, just the same Leon knew Dante had killed the real father of the sleeping teenager down the hall.

     Dante flushed the mess down the toilet, then stood behind Leon. "Yer not alone anymore," he began, his voice low, gentle. "And I ain't no goddamned therapist. I'm here fer you, 'til death do us part. You c'n talk t' me, whenever, and I'll listen." 

     ' _For your protection, and Nero's, I can't drag you into this._ ' Leon almost said it out loud. Almost. He knew it'd come out wrong, he'd sound too much like a cop, and Dante didn't deserve to be shoved away like that. He'd battled Mundus, conquered the guardians to all seven circles of Hell, even fought a Leviathan, but getting to know Wesker on the level Leon knew him- Leon spat into the sink. His tongue no longer tasted like bile, but his throat still burned. No. Dante's faint understanding of Wesker was more than enough. Leon's last personal interaction with Wesker occurred before he'd even started dating Dante. It was best to let the dead stay dead. "I know," he said instead. "Same nightmare as before. Nothing new." A lie. His last nightmare was about Spain, Louis had come to him with veins pulsing beneath transparent skin and a gaping hole in his chest, asking for a fucking cigarette while shoving a combat knife into Leon's lung. Frightening, but not Wesker-holding-a-gun-to-your-head level of downright terrifying.

     Dante rested his forehead against the back of Leon's neck, interrupting his thoughts of dead men. "Love you," he said softly, his deep voice sounded so serious, it almost scared Leon. Dante was rarely a serious man. He hid pain behind humor, disguised anger with sarcasm, he saved _seriousness_ for the nights he talked about his dead twin, and the moments hed very nearly joined him. Those nights, Dante was fully exposed, his skin torn and his ribcage spread, his very soul bared. It was a brutal honesty, intimidating and powerful. It was also an honor that Leon didn't think himself worthy of earning. He, a mere mortal, could never measure up to the dangerous beauty of an incarnation of Beelzebub, let alone hear the secrets he couldn't even tell his son.

     "Love you too," and he meant it. He didnt deserve Dante, even at his worst, but he was grateful the old devil chose him, slid a gold band on his finger, and promised 'til death. There was no one, no one at all, he'd trade Dante for.

     "Coffee?" Dante ghosted his lips across the nape of Leon's neck. "Or are you fixin' t' try 'n sleep some more?"

     Leon glanced at the wall clock. Nearly five in the morning. He'd only been asleep for roughly an hour and a half, the wise choice would be to go back to bed. Adrenaline had burned out, leaving him exhausted. Leon chose wisely, for once. "Sleep. I'll be okay."

* * *

 

     Three hours of sleep was not enough. Dante had fallen back to sleep almost immediately, but Leon had laid awake, despite his  exhaustion, until his alarm went off. Four cups of coffee deep, and a fifth in hand, courtesy of the 7-11 in town, he was back at the daily grind. There were notes to review and answers to find. One can't leave a body on the autopsy table without finding out the what and the why. By the time he reached the morgue, the chief medical examiner already had the what and the why.

     Dr. Eric Hua was tiny. The top of his head just reached Leon's nose, and his limbs were startlingly slim, but his very presence oozed professionalism and demanded respect. The perplexed look he greeted Leon with was enough to make the agent almost stumble over himself in surprise. "I admit, this is some Saw shit," he sounded annoyed, professional airs gone. "Criminals in real life are never this creative." He held up a plastic evidence bag, something small inside. "This was wedged _sideways_ in the vic's windpipe. Creative and patient, we've got a Jigsaw fanboy on our hands or something." Hua relinquished the bag only after Leon had slipped on a pair of neoprene gloves.

     Inside the bag was a key. Still caked in flaking blood, no less. Leon opened the bag and removed the key. Smaller than the average house key, but the head of it was wide enough to catch in the throat, if swallowed. "Wedged in sideways? Was he still alive when that happened?" The key was grimy beneath all that blood, but he could barely make out an embellishment on the head. He rubbed his thumb over it.

     "It was the cause of death. Tore up his throat something fierce, choked on both that, and his own blood. The other wounds were superficial, just deep enough to bleed, not to kill. You say he was discovered in the meat locker at the _steakhouse?_ "

     "Mhm," Leon was still trying to clean off the key, just enough to make out the hidden design, but dried blood had cemented itself within the engraving, camouflaging itself among the rest of the grime. 

     "Kennedy, that's fucking gross."

     "Makes you want a nice slab of sirloin?" Leon smiled wryly, finally looking up. "There's something here, got anything?"

     Hua took the key back, squinting down at it for himself. "Huh. I missed that." He turned and opened a supply cabinet, rustling through it. He found what he needed, and bent over the key, Leon joining him at his side. Hua was using a long cotton swab and some basic isopropyl alcohol, only a few rubs in had revealed the hidden etching. " _Well_ ," was all Hua had to say when the full design became clear. "This is getting cryptic."

     J. V. 

     Just two letters, roughly stamped into the key, nothing more.

     "Company initials?" Hua suggested, noting Leon's equally as confused expression. "This is a locker key. You guys have keys just like these, plenty of workplaces do."

     "What the fuck was it doing lodged in the victim's throat?" He picked up the key, studying it even harder, wondering, hoping, there was something else hidden under the layers of gore. "And I doubt it's a company's initials. Work keys also come with two letters stamped in to differentiate master keys from copies."

     "No guarantee it actually is a work key, all we know is it unlocks a locker, somewhere. That's what you guys are for, is figuring out which one. My job centers more or less around the dead. Speaking of which, shall we? I have a copy of the pathology report for you." He plucked the empty evidence bag up, handing it to Leon. 

* * *

 

     When Leon arrived to the department, he held the full autopsy report under one arm, and the key hidden in his pocket. He did his best to ignore the looks thrown his way, even if they did make him feel like knocking heads. He strode past them and dropped the file at officer Brody's desk. "Do you know if my report was actually filed last night?"

     Brody looked up quizzically. "What report did _you_ make?" It wasn't said to be rude, Leon's history made it clear he could handle what the police force could not. Leon filing an incident report at all was unheard of.

     Leon bent down and lowered his voice, "Got home last night to some of these guys swarming my place. They leave, and I'm suddenly missing a gun. The safe I kept it in was pried open."

     Brody's eyebrows furrowed, "Why in the hell would my department wanna steal a gun from you?"

     "I don't know, which is why I'm asking if my report was even filed."

     "I don't know, I haven't checked."

     "Thank you. Full report on the body," he tapped the folder. Full report, minus the key, of course. He knew Brody would take his time with it. Without knowledge of the key's existence, it wasn't about to be prioritized. Heartless as it sounded, people got murdered every day, but not everyone got murdered with a key down their throat. Brody nodded, and as expected, didn't move to open the folder. Leon would make sure to put the key in lock-up _after_ he'd figured out what J. V. meant. 

     Retreating to his office, he fired up his laptop, and opened Chrome. Finding a correlating name was going to take a lot of time, and a lot of determination. He'd need another cup of coffee soon. J. V. Junior Varsity? Obviously not. Twitter accounts, JV podcast, Jhonen Vasquez, artsy Instagrams full of faded flower crowns and cups of tea held by twenty-something women with pastel green hair. Google was a bust. Cross-checking with the database would take an equal amount of effort, but held the promise of a better yield of results. That promise crumbled into ash as the minutes ticked by without a plausible match. Defeated, he slammed the laptop lid down and dropped his face into his hands with a disgruntled growl. Even with a full night's sleep, J. V. would still be no closer to an answer. He raised his head, eyes closed, hands clasped together under his chin. Fuck, he was tired, there was no way he'd be able to find J. V. a full name.

      _A name for J. V._

     His eyes shot open, and he booted the laptop back up. The database was still open. He scoured it again, and again. The third time through, he was certain of it. A copy of the list of names was printed off, and he was out the door, cell phone out and dialing. 

     "Special Agent Connelly."

     "It's Leon, I need a favor. It's important."

     "What's up? You sound agitated."

     "Do you still have personnel files for Jill Valentine? If so, pull 'em up."

     "Hold on." Furious keystrokes, a pause, "Yeah, I got them, what next?"

     "Does it list any P. O. boxes, or lock boxes? Previous addresses?"

     "Uh." He could hear her mumbling almost inaudibly. "Her previous listed address was Silver City, New Mexico, no lock boxes listed, but the New Mexico address comes with a P. O. box. Leon, what's going on?"

     "My laptop seems to have magically purged any and all mention of Agent Valentine, for starters. I also have a key in my possesion, recovered from the dead body from last night's scene. It's engraved with the initials J. V." He was already in his car, turning on the GPS. "Do you have the exact address for Silver City?"

     "Yeah, let me text it to you, I need to get off the phone before the chief catches me with the official S. T. A. R. S. roster up and you on the phone. Keep me updated, though. I know you're doing this alone, don't get yourself in trouble." She hung up before he could reply, and a few seconds later, Jill's address was in his hand. Ten hour drive, give or take, on an hour and a half of sleep. He'd stop at a Shell, grab a few Rockstars. Coffee wasn't going to cut it, not for ten hours on the road. 

     He sent a quick text to Dante, ' _Got a lead, out of state. Don't wait up.'_ He silenced his phone after that, and focused on staying lucid. If his hunch was right, if there were less innocuous reasons as to why his laptop, owned by the San Antonio police force, had somehow purged Valentine's files, that ten hour road trip would hold answers in Silver City. 


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a break from this, moved over one thousand miles away, time to pick it back up and work on other stories.

Jill Valentine's last known residence, long since abandoned, it seemed eerie in the dark. Knowing that the house he stopped in front of was the very last place anyone had seen her, it also seemed sad. Not even Chris knew where she went. Shortly after prying Wesker's contraption from her chest, taking her back home, she disappeared without a trace. She had remained visible long enough to purchase the house, give her thanks to Chris through boxed wine and a hot 'n heavy makeout session on her couch, and they almost had sex there once. She disappeared after that, and not even Chris knew why.

The key laid heavily in his pocket, still wrapped in plastic. No time to get sentimental over an empty house, he carried on down the road, only glancing at the receding outline in the rearview mirror once. The Silver City post office was, of course, closed by then, but he was already well over sleep-deprived. His plan was to take a cat-nap in the car, wake just before business hours, and get into that lock box. He parked in the back of the parking lot, leaned his seat back, and closed his eyes.

Mere seconds passed, he was almost asleep, and a sudden thumping at the driver's side window jerked him up in his seat. The lack of streetlamps in that part of the lot made it hard to discern what was outside, but he could make out the palm of a hand pressed to his window. It was pale, small, but not child-sized. A woman? He leaned closer, squinting into the darkness, and a face peered back at him. He jerked back with a short yelp. The face was only faintly visible, shrouded by the dark. He could see lips moving, but no sound, despite his window being cracked. Leaning close again, the voice lilted in and out.

"Leave it, Kennedy. Just leave it and go back."

"What?"

"Leave it, leave it alone."

"What- who are you? Leave what?"

The palm left his window and the face retreated fully into the darkness.

"What the fuck?" He scrambled out of the car, taking a few steps in the direction the face had disappeared. "Hello?" His hand went to his hip, his holster was empty. SHoulder- combat knife gone from its sheath. Even the walkie was gone off his belt. His doors had been locked, and yet, all his gear was missing. A pang of fear gripped his heart for a moment, before he pushed it back down. The more pressing matter was that stranger who'd magically vanished. A few more steps forth. Not even the sound of footsteps, no sign of anyone having been there at all. "What the fuck," he said again, voice trailing off as he looked about. Without his tactical flashlight, searching the expanse of darkness was out of the question. He heaved an irritated sigh and turned to retreat back to the car.

Standing right behind him was Ada Wong. Or was it Carla? The shock of her sudden presence had delayed the sharp, searing pain of his own combat knife piercing his lower abdomen for few precious seconds. "Should have left it, Kennedy." She whispered hoarsely into his ear. "Just like your unhealthy obsession with me, your uncanny habit of stumbling into things you shouldn't is going to get you killed." She twisted the knife, and he jerked awake for the second time. He forced air into his lungs, trying to keep his mind from reeling. He'd never left the car, his gear was still on him, and eary morning greyish light revealed a still-empty lot.

Another goddamned nightmare, but why Ada? He hadn't given her much thought after Beijing. Never once wondered if she was still alive, who she was working for now, and he'd found himself happier that way. It was inevitable, apparently, that his mind would focus on her again. Just like he'd told Ashley, Ada was part of his past that he just couldn't let go. Certainly not in the romantic sense, any affections he may have once had for her died the moment she lied to him, back in Raccoon City. Even still, she held some importance, even if he couldn't figure out why. He'd taken a bullet for her, and she had paid him back by taking a virus sample back to Wesker. Chris could hate her, but not Leon.

Enough, enough about Ada, he had a job to do, and she wasn't part of it. Just a stress-induced nightmare, that's all. He adjusted his seat and exited his car, making doubly sure nothing was missing, and the doors were locked. He had time left to kill before going to business, and a coffee sounded heavenly at that moment. Starbucks was open, and just a few buildings down, he could wake up with an Americano and check anything he'd missed in the past few hours. Looking up, he noted, he could also watch the start of the storm that was already brewing. Grey clouds circled slowly above, and the wind was cool. With any luck, he could make a run for it before the downpour started and wait under the awning, if need be, until the post office opened.

He was right, the storm began just as he entered the building, key out of the plastic. Rain pattered at the windows as he scanned the wall of lockers, the sound mingling with his thoughts. He didn't need to ask the clerk for the locker number, he had a hunch, a strong one, that it matched her S.T.A.R.S. badge number. Chris could confirm, but that asshole hadn't even so much as left a contact number before ghosting, it seemed. His hunch had been right, anyway. They key fit into the lock like a glove, and turned easily. Before opening it, he paused, a sudden pang of dread threading through his nerves. What if the contents further incriminated them all? Gave the police force the little push they needed to defraud Jill, Chris, himself? Jill had fallen into Wesker's hands, there was no promising she had been entierly forced into compliance.

He swung it open before he could second guess himself further. Inside- a sealed envelope, thick and lumpy, and nothing else. He grabbed it, pocketed the key again, and stalked out, tucking it into his jacket. If anything in that envelope happened to be sensitive to the elements, he'd take no risks in the downpour. Somehow, Jill was involved with the murder back in San Antonio, and he needed to find out how, and why. For her sake, as well as his, he sorely hoped she had nothing to do with the death.

In the safety and solitude of his car, he ripped the envelope open and tipped the contents into his lap. An audio recorder, another goddamned key, and a cheap digital camera. That was all. The camera was empty, yet fully charged. The key was completely blank, unmarked, and unmarred. Possibly unused, it was immaculate, a far cry from the key that had been pulled from the throat of the murder victim. Leon had felt he'd had quite enough of fucking keys for one lifetime, and had to bodily resist just chucking the thing out of the driver's side window. Jill, he assumed, had sealed it in a package, locked in a lockbox, for a reason. He pocketed it instead.

The recording device was also digital, a memory card installed and already partially used. He pressed the play button.

"Chris," Jill's voice came in a hushed tone, hurried even. "I know this will reach you, I know you have questions and you'll go searching for the answers to them. You'll find this, and you'll be able to help."

Leon winced faintly. Sorry Jill, Chris went AWOL right behind you. At the least, however, Leon was a comrade.

"To start, my location cannot be revealed. Too many ears, all of them reporting back to the wrong people, but I know you can figure it out. You now me better than anyone, Chris." Her voice softened, almost a solid confirmation of the rumors about her and Redfield. Wherever she went, she'd taken her affections with her. "You know where the key leads to. Use it. The camera is insurance. Record anything that feels off, leave it somewhere to be found, don't let anyone get away with covering a damned thing up anymore. I know how badly the incident at the Spencer mansion destroyed any semblance of a normal life for you, for Claire. Make our side of the stories known.

"Use the key, Chris. Find your answers, and put an end to any and all ties to Umbrella for good. If you succeed, you'll find me, and I pray to any god that'll listen that you do."

The audio cut off there, the rest of the memory stick empty. Nothing tying her to the corpse in the meat freezer, or any clue as to why her lockbox key was found in said corpse. More questions and no answers. Goddamnit. He heaved a sigh, hunched over the steering wheel, fingers tangled in his hair. Chris knew where the key lead to, according to Jill. Chris was nowhere to be seen, and with no way to get in contact. As far as he was concerned, he'd hit a dead end. Key in hand again, he studied it. It was pristine, devoid of any markings to give even a vague hint as to where it belonged. No scuffs from use, no company logos, no initials, not even a scrape from a keyring.

"Fuck."

He wanted to give up, return home, maybe even quit his job and go into hiding as well. He couldn't, not if Jill's life was at risk. Think like Chris, what would he know about that key? What would Jill assume only Chris knew? Chris, Jill, key. Something connecting the three that no one else was supposed to know. Think, he told himself. Think. He repeated the mantra to himself, wracking his brain hard enough to nearly cause a migraine. He leaned back, another hunch forming. He buckled himself in and cranked the engine, turning back towards Jill's last known residence. If this hunch was also right, he could do what Chris couldn't; put an end to what S.T.A.R.S. had started.

The storm was in full force when he arrived back at the house. He'd complied with Jill's instructions, tucking the digital camera into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, and ran to the door. He held his breath as he slid the key into the lock, and only let it out when the lock turned. She must have made that copy just before leaving, returning the master copy to the landlord.

Inside the house was eerily silent, save for the pounding of rain on the roof. She had left behind nearly everything she owned. Furniture remained, photos still on the walls, wilted flowers in the vase on the mantle. A thin layer of dust covered everything. It was as if Jill had suddenly disappeared, instead of going into hiding. It felt almost wrong to be there, dripping onto her new carpet, standing where Chris should have been. He shook his head, the thoughts fading. Chris could deal with it, Leon was still a cop, he had work to do, and Jill's involvement fell into his jurisdiction. Surely, Jill could forgive him, she knew what the job demanded. She was a cop once, too.

He ventured further in, listening to the oddly calming sounds of the weather, deep rolls of thunder soothing frayed nerves, rain turning his racing thoughts into white noise, it was helping him think, helping him keep his head. Another Think-Like-Chris scenario, what in Jill's house would lead him to her? Or better yet what links her to San Antonio? The more he thought about it, the more he began to believe she had been the reason the body showed up. She wanted her locker key found, she wanted Chris to find her package, to find her. She assumed Chris would resume work in the force. She assumed his affections for her would keep him on her trail, alone, to cover up her involvement with a death. And Leon found himself profiling her as if she were another common criminal. "Enough, enough," he told himself, not the appropriate time for that.

"What are you hiding here, Valentine?" He studied the room, keen eyes on the lookout for anything that seemed out of place, any crooked pictures on the walls, any indents in the wallpaper, anything. Outside, thunder roared, shaking the foundation of the house, even the windows rattled. But Jill never said a word. 


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally played and beat RE7. Helped inspire me to continue writing this.

He found it. A loose brick in the fireplace, tilted just out of place among the others. So small, so insignificant, he very well could have missed it if he hadn't truly been looking. He pulled it out, aimed the light inside, reached in. A small box, locked- now he knew what the key went to. Inside, a letter, and another memory stick. A spare, he figured, tucking it into his pocket. The letter, hopefully, would point him in the next direction.

The letter was exactly what he hoped for, and at the same time, what he hadn't. Jill had vaguely explained her whereabouts, over in Louisiana, and more concerning, the strings of disappearances over there, her last assignment. She knew she'd end up on the list of names, if she were lucky. She had the idea that the remnants of Umbrella were involved, somehow. Local police were failing at the case, officers of their own disappearing while on the beat. Her new position as a private eye led her to the case, commissioned by the family of a missing couple.

Shit. Time to book a flight.

  
Officially, he was using up vacation days, as he idly flapped his plane ticket at his face and neck. Dante was just behind him, no point in even trying to convince him to stay behind. Two heads were better than one, and all that jazz, Dante had his own experience working cases akin to this- though, his cases usually ended up with some unholy being running amok, rather than the generic serial killer. Just a vacation, he told himself, Dante had property in Louisiana, Nero was being cared for by one of Dante's closer friends, just a vacation. Not breaking protocol, not going rogue, just a vaca-

Not a vacation, the sinking feeling in his gut couldn't let him keep up the facade of just having a holiday. Even if he broke the case and saved the day, his job could be at an end when he got back. He'd pulled a lot of strings over the years, used his status like a shield, but he couldn't claim immunity forever.

As if reading his mind, Dante reached over, laid a warm hand over his knee. And like a child, Leon felt himself relax, even if only a little. His hands loosened around the steering wheel, and he felt the muscles in his back gradually slacken. He'd be a sore mess later, he realized, every muscle in his body had been pulled taught ever since they got off the plane and into their rental.

"These are my stompin' grounds," Dante's low voice was so smooth, so calm, "I know these bayous like the back of my hand. If we're headin' where I think we are, I know it well enough."

"Do you really? Or are you doing that thing you do to calm me down?"

Dante shrugged, "I did some work there in my youth." He raised a brow when Leon shot him a glance. "What, I had to earn a livin' before I had the business, didn't you have a teenage job before you wore a badge?"

"Fair enough, just odd to imagine you doing anything but hunt."

Dante batted at Leon's arm, "Stop here. Rains turn the road to soup up ahead, and this little shitkicker ain't gonna make it through." The car came to a stop, and the demon hunter stepped out. "Good thing you wore boots, we're walkin'."

Goddamnit.

Dante was right, however, the dirt road had turned into sticky-slick goop, the car would have sank right into it, and it'd take a tow to get it back out. It squelched beneath their steps, covering Leon's shiny new standard issue boots in thick clumps. Thank goodness he'd decided to wear at least part of his uniform, boots and Kevlar over civilian clothes, though the Kevlar was making the humid air nigh unbearable.

Dante stopped abruptly, an arm across Leon's chest, "Look."

Ahead, another vehicle. A smaller car, pale yellow, abandoned. Leon stepped around Dante, approaching the vehicle with a mix of caution and authority, the steps of a seasoned officer. It was empty, with the tires half sunk in the mud, and the vague outlines of footprints leading away. "We may not be alone," he said, eyes following the trail into the distance. The path curved ahead, no telling what could lay in wait. "These look fairly recent, before the last rainfall."

Behind him, Dante chambered a round, but kept the gun holstered. "Rained just before dawn," he drawled, demeanor shifting. Subtle changes in his posture, the way he swung his arms as he walked, he was on full alert, but appeared lax. Always fooled his targets into coming out of hiding, and Leon felt himself following suit. Anything could be out there, watching, just out of view. The person who owned the car could be playing for the other team.

"Gross."

Dante's voice snapped Leon from his thoughts, and he grimaced in agreement. Some sort of morbid sigil, a wheel of severed cow legs with a goat's skull in the middle- and were those saw blades? The last time Leon had seen anything like it, he was in Spain, fighting to keep Ashley Graham alive, as well as himself. With a faint, sick shudder of the spine, he realized the trail only continued beyond the sigil. "Any way around?"

Dante shook his head, kneeling, one hand on a sticky, bloody rope. "Only under. Whoever drove that car went this way," he pointed to the indent in the path beneath, and the soggy outline of footprints on the other side. Inwardly, Leon sighed.

 

Elsewhere, a colony of mycelium waited, growing slowly over whatever lay in its path. Through the air, through the ground, it knew. New faces, new hosts, the newest additions to it's colony, were drawing near. How lucky, just the previous day, another prospective member had joined the dinner table, soon, it would be full. After that, it'd reach beyond, colonize further and further.

 

It was dark when they reached the house. Old, but not dilapidated, just weathered. Even still, the mere sight of it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. This was where Jill had gone? This abandoned mansion in the middle of the bayou, not too unlike the Spencer mansion, and it's seclusion in the Arklay mountain forest. Coincidence, or was Fate playing one hell of a joke?

As if on auto-pilot, Leon slowed his pace, his movements silenced. He may have been just another cop, but his body was still that of a government special agent. He was crouched low, one hand hovering over the piece at his hip, and he listened.

Silence.

Not just the natural quietness of nightfall, pure silence. No chirping crickets, no shrill trill of the night peepers, not even the call of a bullfrog. It was heavy, uncomfortable, almost suffocating a silence. Bad, very bad, that same silence had occurred back in Spain, and even in Raccoon City. Even the animals had known to get the fuck outta dodge.

He crept further, reaching the sagging porch. It creaked under his weight, and he paused. Still silent. He moved again, slower, carefully choosing where he stepped next. Behind him, Dante, who was taller, and carried at least 40lbs more of muscle weight, moved like a shadow.

When they reached the door, they found it to be unlocked, and ajar. Leon hesitated before pushing it open, the hinges whining faintly. He knew, right then and there, once they stepped over the threshold, they wouldn't be stepping back out until the house decided it was done with them. Whether they find the missing people, Jill, or whoever, it would not be made easy. Hell, nothing in Leon's life had been easy ever since 1998, save for his marriage, he should have been used to it, prepared, even.

They stepped into the house, and the door slowly, silently, closed behind them.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments you guys are leaving are greatly appreciated, I'm glad this fic is being enjoyed. I'm going to try to update this as often as possible, I can feel the inspiration coming back to me.

They were plunged into darkness, the room entirely devoid of windows, and for a fleeting moment, Leon felt panic bubble in his chest. He quickly squashed it down, and reached for his tactic light. He was sure Dante, with his rather unique genetics, hadn't needed it, but Leon was still very much so a human, and human eyes didn't amount to jack-shit in the dark.

The pale blue tinted light illuminated the mud room, and all the trash lining the sideboards along the floor. One door lay ahead, closed, hopefully not locked. He stepped to it carefully, ears straining for noise. Nothing. He opened it, and was met with more darkness, and a lack of surprises. The small hallway ended in a 90 degree turn to the right, into an equally as trashed kitchen, which smelled to the high heavens. Abandoned, all right, the pot of stew left on the table couldn't have been less than a month old, and riddled with roaches. Leon regretted letting his curiosity lead him to lifting the lid.

"This place sure as shit went t' hell," Dante commented, kicking at a pile of garbage. "Back in its heyday, it was a real nice place."

"You seriously did work here," it was less of a question than a statement. "I take it they didn't make it a habit to post leg-wheels back then?"

Dante snorted. "It was the early eighties, the owners weren't much older than I was, they wanted to start up a sorta farm here. Big house, it was half new, half old then, this is only the newer part. Rest of it's down in the swamplands. Can tell you right now, whatever work I did do for 'em, it's all gone to shit by now."

"Who's the owner?"

"Couple named Baker. Ain't had nothin' but a couple of years of marriage by then, talked of havin' a family just before I left. Who knows where they are now."

They'd traveled to the main hall, light following the staircase. An open room, if you could call it that. A switch on a support beam, Leon could tell from the landing that it was out of order, its red light a beacon in the shadows. Dead end there, unless it could be repaired.

Further down, another pair of doors. Jesus, the house was really bigger on the inside, wasn't it? The first door, the white door, opened into a parlor. Piano against one wall, old television against another, windows completely blocked out. Darkness pressed in on them like a predator, it felt. The very house had an aura of constant danger around every darkened corner. Speaking of corners, the room was yet another dead end. Leon leaned out of the doorway, studying the second door. From his side, it looked passable. But as he tried the knob, he was met with resistance. Not locked, the knob turned, but somehow inaccessible. Shit.

A sudden grinding nearly made him jump, and he rushed back to the parlor, where he found Dante kneeling at the hearth. "Secret little hidey-hole," he explained, standing and brushing the dust off his knees. "I was wondering if it were still workin'." He nodded to the now open portion of the wall, a small portion, but they could fit if they crouched.

Leon looked from the door to his spouse, incredulously, "Where's it lead?"

"Basement."

"Fuck's sake."

  
Coming across a few-days-old corpse in the murky, stinking waters underneath the house was a bit of a surprise, but it also added to his sense of urgency. To find Jill? To leave? Maybe a bit of both. Why had he come? Oh yeah, that pesky part of himself to do what's right, that's why. Protect and serve, it's what was drilled into him at the academy, of which he'd graduated early, and it's what his gut told him to do anywhere else.

Still-damp footprints, shoe size 9, led up the concrete and back into the house. "Owner of the car's been here," Leon muttered, following the trail. It went dead when they reached a carpeted area, complete with an empty makeshift cell. Stained mattresses were adhered to the walls, and Leon found himself fighting away thoughts of what may have been kept in there. The trail went cold, but there was, yet again, only one way to go.

Leon fit through the gap in the wall with little trouble, his Kevlar had gotten snagged on a stray nail once. Dante, however, was thicker, with broader shoulders and stronger arms.

"You stay yer ass put," he'd called to Leon, from the other side of the wall. "If I gotta break through the damn wall, I'm gonna, but don't you go nowhere."

"Dante, we don't have time, there's only one way to go from here, you can catch up."

The old devil was about to reply, but the faint scuff of boot heels told him that Leon had already gone ahead. Damn. Goddamn. Fuck it, he went at the gap, silently cursing his genetics, feeling exposed nails and splintered wood scrape and catch at his skin and clothes. Okay, his genetics were actually really good, his cuts and gashes knitting together immediately, leaving no trace of themselves.

On the other side, he thundered through the broken wall, through the cellar, up the stairs. At the top, he paused, listened, and continued. Down the hall, he paused again, stopped dead at the sight of a surprisingly fresh pool of blood on the floor of a study. The wall had broken there, too, debris in the room. Something was thrown through it with real force. Christ, what a madhouse it'd become. Whatever, time to get sentimental was later, he had a husband to track down.

The dark wooden door around the corner was the same that refused to open earlier, planks had been nailed across it. They weren't anymore, laying broken on the floor, the door opened wide. Dante wrapped a hand around the grip of a gun, and advanced with caution. The main hall was empty, but distinct sprays and washes of fresh blood painting the walls and floor told him it hadn't been just earlier. Drag marks in deep crimson made it obvious whoever they belonged to hadn't left voluntarily. As despair sank in his gut, he knew it had been Leon.

Shit-fuck.

The traces of red had given him enough of a trail to follow, deeper into the house, and God help whoever laid a hand upon the spouse of Sparda's kin.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom, two chapter update in one day. One question answered, and so many more left to go.

The house seemed bigger than he remembered, but that was nearing forty years ago. Definitely trashier than he remembered, and not just the trash that came with abandonment. It was as if the Bakers themselves had just let the house go. It was vaguely saddening, in a way, a once grand mansion that had turned into a giant garbage dump. Clumps of black mold had even begun to grow, he noted.

A garage, that's where his trail had ended. Or rather, exploded. The smoldering wreckage of a car, the corpse of a deputy, and black smudges were all that greeted him. What the fuck happened here? Now he knew, though, why the local cops had disappeared, they'd all ended up dead, somehow. This poor sucker had half his skull sliced clean off.

The door across the way was ajar, and back into the house he went, every fiber of his being screaming at him that only danger waited ahead.

 

When Leon woke, it was to a pounding in his head, and the sensation of drying blood caked in his hair, down his face. His wrists were restrained, tied to a chair, his legs were free, however.

A fist slammed onto the table before him, "Wakey-wakey," crooned a gravelly voice. He jumped, turned his head, and winced as the pounding only grew in intensity. His vision swam a few moments, and when it focused, it was to a pale, dirty face, with wild eyes and scraggly facial hair. Glasses and an ugly yellow plaid shirt. "Was wonderin' when either of you would finally join us," he drawled, his accent nearly as thick as Dante's. Dante. He looked around, glancing at the other faces, neither of them belonging to his husband. Just pale, grinning faces with stained teeth and grey eyes.

One of the faces was still downcast, a thin man in upperclass dress, unconscious. His wrists were also tied, but one bore a high-tech gadget, measuring his heart rate. Green lines blipped calmly across the screen.

Pain exploded in his head again as he was jerked, a pale hand with dirty nails wrapped around the strap of his Kevlar vest, "Starin's rude, boy! It's dinnertime, and we fixed you somethin' special."

He glanced down at the spread, and swallowed hard. Something special meant what looked like the remains of what, he figured, were the missing people. Slimy, shiny loops of intestines, cuts of red muscle, and it all stank. The woman, with dark, knotted hair and an unnerving grin nodded at him encouragingly.

Fuck you, he thought, as the old man lifted a spoon of the stuff, and he turned his head. The spoon-bearing hand backhanded him, spoon sent flying, meat leaving a greasy smear over his cheekbone. He let out an involuntary grunt as color faded from his vision, and his skull felt close to exploding. The old man was screaming at someone, at him? He couldn't tell, his words and the woman's screeching were muffled, he was very near to passing out again.

"Put him in the processing area," the gruff voice commanded, and a skinny guy wearing a hood pushed himself back from the table. "He ain't ready to join this family yet."

Family? He hadn't time to dwell further on that, not when his chair was being dragged away from the table, and a fist sailed towards his head.

 

The dining room was empty when Dante reached it. Table was still set, gruesome dinner on plates and platters, one chair tipped over. Someone still lived in the house, tables don't set themselves.

No sign of Leon.

He still remembered the layout, even if roughly. He didn't remember the gaudy new locks on the doors. Cerberus, the three headed dog, the guardian to the gates of Hell, he scoffed. How fitting, he thought to himself. Surely, the rest of the house could be considered Hell on Earth.

The carpet was stained, trash lined the room, and the whole place smelled like damp mold. He wanted to leave, to go back to Texas and to write the whole thing up as a bad memory, but not without Leon. He had spent nearly ten years courting the agent, and had finally put a goddamn ring on him, Leon was his partner in crime, the love of his life, there was no just up and leaving him behind.

He set his jaw and pushed himself forward, Ebony clutched tightly in one hand.

 

Leon would have shanked someone for a goddamn Aspirin. His nose was, thankfully, not broken, but the coppery smell of blood caked his sinus cavity. He already knew, before reaching down, that his holster was empty, as was the sheath at his shoulder. Weaponless and alone in a dimly lit basement, yet again, he cursed.

Standing seemed harder than he remembered, his aching head giving him vertigo. He'd grabbed hold of the nearest surface to pull himself up. A gurney, he realized. A gurney with a body wrapped in white plastic. He was vaguely reminded of the case he'd been working, back home. If he made it out alive and in one piece, he'd get justice for the poor bastards. All of them.

Relief flooded him as he recognized the handle of a knife, just a pocket knife, but decent in size, and better than nothing. He pulled it from the corpse, gripped it tight. Though the room was dim, he could still make out his surroundings. Chutes along the wall, specific chutes. Body chutes, those of a furnace. A fucking crematorium, under the house. Not new, not by any means, but well cared for, and still functioning. One chute was still smoking faintly, recently used.

White labels scribbled with something, one on each door, smudged and hard to read, but he figured they were names. No doubt, the people who'd gone missing. The bodies wrapped in plastic, also missing, but the amount outnumbered the list of names. This had gone on longer than even the local force had originally thought. He glanced over his shoulder at the body on the gurney, the one he'd taken the knife out of. The knife in his hand- it bore small etchings near the hinge, in the shape of a star.

His chest tightened and his lungs seized. He dropped the knife and tore at the plastic covering the corpse. His breaths came faster, shallower, cold sweat beaded at his brow. The plastic tore away, and he backed away from the body.

"No." It hadn't sounded like his own voice, it sounded like a scared child, faint and weak.

He found Jill.


	7. Seven

Jill was dead. He'd been too slow, followed her trail too late, nearly gotten himself killed, as well. If Chris had been in his shoes instead- No, wishful thinking wouldn't help. It wouldn't bring Jill back. Chris was in hiding, he chose to disappear, as was his right, and Leon was just too fucking slow.

She was cold and stiff, grey, but looked peaceful. He could, at the very least, be grateful that she was. Ever since the incident at the Spencer mansion, her life had been hell. She'd also been one of the few survivors of Raccoon City, and had suffered the aftermath just as he had. And then, in Africa... Even if in death, she had finally gotten away from it all.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her corpse, laying a gentle hand on her head. "You deserved better than this." Then, he stepped away. Grief could come later, and he would see to it personally that she got justice, as well. He hadn't known her as well as Chris had, but for his sake, and for the sake of their slowly formed, fragile friendship, he would.

He retrieved the knife, wiped it clean on his thigh, and gripped it tight. If he ever found Chris, he'd give it to him. For now, he needed it. He took a deep breath, did his best to ignore the ache in his skull, and pushed forward. The cellar proved spacious, and riddled with thick columns of black mold along the walls, creeping along the floor. With how old the house was, and how humid the air was, he wasn't surprised with the presence of it. What did surprise him was when something stepped out of the mold, something tall, with sharp teeth and staggering steps.

The first one caused him to freeze, flashes of memories of Regenerators filling his mind. That fucking PTSD that was forever branded on his psych profile, it rooted him to the spot, froze his limbs and put a vise around his lungs. His normal response was to fight, but with head trauma and the shock of finding Valentine's corpse, that response refused to engage. Hell, even flight was off the table, he was a deer in the damn headlights, wheezing breathing echoing in his ears.

The thing reared back and dove at him, and he finally snapped back into reality. He ducked under the reaching arms, dashed forth, drove the knife under its ribs. It didn't seem to notice the first time, so he did it again. And again. His arms burned with the effort, he was driving his weight behind the knife, adrenaline urging him to sink the blade in as deep as it could go, and he felt it hit the thing's back ribs. Desperation, he'd found, had the capability of turning him into a beast. It kept him alive, to kill before he was killed. His psych profile must be one hell of a page turner. His last therapist had wanted to do an entire study on him, before he declined further counsel.

The thing finally dropped, and adrenaline left him with trembling hands and shuddering breaths. He leaned back against the wall, forcing his heart rate to slow and even out his breathing. The last Outbreak had ended in China, and he had been sure it'd be the last. This, however, was something entirely new, and he wasn't so certain that Umbrella was behind it at all anymore.

He watched the creature's body crumble and wither, and only after it was completely gone did he move again. Through the maze he went, catching another of the creatures. But it was the old woman that nearly gave him a heart attack. She sat in an old wicker wheelchair, legs covered with a blanket. Her bony chest rose and fell faintly, and her grey eyes locked on him as soon as he came into sight. She was ancient, trembling in her seat, wordlessly following him with her eyes. He vaguely remembered her from the dining room, sitting in silence, just watching. She couldn't have gotten there on her own, one of those batshit people must have left her there.

Creepy.

He inched his way around her, body on alert, despite her fragile form. She had relation to the family, and he had no reason to trust that she wasn't incapable of anything. After all, he'd seen small children, infected, taking down grown men in the streets of Beijing.

A safe distance away, he began to run, pushing at locked doors, searching for any that opened, hopefully, to an exit. No such luck, as was his way. Ahead, a door slammed, and hurried footsteps echoed through the halls. "Shit." He glanced around, and ducked behind a metal rack piled with half-full garbage bags, knife at the ready.

The smaller man with the fancy wristband ran past, his pale face set in a fearful grimace. His Oxford shoes were caked with mud and mold, and the knees of his khaki pants were stained.

Leon dashed out of his hiding place, the noise of his movements spurring the other man to run faster, and Leon was sure he heard him yelp in surprise. Quick as he was, fear had made the other man even quicker. He disappeared around a corner before Leon could catch up, and was gone entirely when he rounded the same corner. "Damnit."

So much for that, but if he'd come from the other direction, that could mean an exit was now open. Leon turned, and sprinted in the other direction. Sure enough, a door lay wide open, stairs leading up. Thank goodness. He slowed when he reached them, and cautiously ascended. All was quiet, save for the creaking of boards beneath his boots. To the left, a dim hall that turned out of sight. To the right, a door. He chose the door. Good thing, he found out, the room beyond held a crate, one that held an old, but working 10mm firearm, and a few rounds. Possibly the stash of the other guy, but the phrase 'finders keepers' came to mind.

He loaded it, seven rounds in total. Better than just a knife, but even better to save it for when he truly needed it. He placed it in his holster.

Out of the basement, he was all that much closer to freedom, but in between, a lot of work to do. Finding Dante topped that list. The familiar bulge in the pocket on his Kevlar, the digital camera Jill had left behind, that was yet another task. Document everything, she'd said. He could do that, at the least. Not just for Jill, but for all of S.T.A.R.S. And for himself. After China, it was hard covering up the outbreaks, but the effects of being smeared by the media, after Raccoon City, it was the least everyone deserved, especially the victims.

Leon rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and took a breath. Back into the house, back into danger, it was all he knew anymore. Ever since his first day as a cop, he'd been in danger. He was trained for it, ready for it. Every close call and near-death experience just added another notch to his belt. This madhouse, it was nothing compared to entire cities full of the walking dead.

He told himself that, as he ventured through the mold-riddled hall. He told himself that, just to keep himself going. He wasn't twenty-one anymore. His time had an end, and it very well could be somewhere in the house.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for your comments, I appreciate them.

Navigating the house wasn't as difficult as he'd expected. Big as it was, the layout was simple enough. The big blue door the obvious exit, but leaving then was not an option. He ignored it in favor of the stairs.

More mold greeted him beyond the nearest door, crawling up the walls and trailing along the ceiling. Thankfully, not nearly enough to spawn one of those things, though the smell was just as strong as in the cellar. Of all times to be without a filter mask. He chose his steps carefully, ears straining, someone had to be around. He had learned, over the years, that silence never meant being alone- especially not when you were in the belly of the beast.

Sure enough, the stern voice of that crazy old bastard broke the silence, somewhere around the corner. Scrambling, thudding, the old man yelling something about a gift, and hurried footsteps rushing across the floor. Leon hovered a hand over his hip, and stepped around the corner. The old man, sans a shirt, his back to him, was wielding a rather grisly home-made weapon, one that had seen its fair share of blood already. Even from a distance, Leon could tell it wasn't rust that discolored the blades. A distorted version of a chainsaw.

Leon ducked out of view, back to the wall, firearm drawn. He risked a glance into the room again, the man had advanced further away, no doubt chasing the thin man. That meant Dante wasn't nearby, which meant he was either safe, elsewhere- or dead, elsewhere. Leaving him behind was such a stupid idea, why had he done it?

"Shit-fuck, shit-fuck!" He hissed the words to himself, both hands pressing to his head. alone, injured, improperly armed, and hanging off the edge between sanity and shattering into a million pieces, he hadn't come prepared. He expected a human to throw behind bars, maybe even a denizen of Neo-Umbrella, he'd even expected to get shot. Mold that turned into sentient beings, that hadn't been anywhere on the radar. Separating from Dante had been so fucking stupid, they both were at the mercy of the Manson Family 2.0, and all he had was a knife, and seven bullets.

"Get a hold on yourself," he breathed, doubled over, hands over his eyes. The crazy bastard had gone, time to move. "Don't lose it now, Kennedy." He straightened, pushed himself from the wall, "Don't lose it now."

 

Downstairs, the hunter took purposeful, long strides. There had been people about earlier, two different sized shoe prints, still visible in the black sludge. One more the same tread pattern as Leon's boots. Dante knew he'd been alive, had hoped he was uninjured, now he just wished Leon would stay fucking put long enough to be found. It's what he got, marrying a busybody.

Something behind him gurgled, mold formed together and produced another of those sharp-toothed creatures. This one, however, was bigger, one of its arms ending in claw-tipped tentacle type extensions. It gurgled again, advancing upon the knelt hunter. The odd arm raised up, its upper body pivoted, and it readied to whip at its target. The arm came down, but no contact was made. It couldn't, not with the lower half of its arm gone.

Dante was still knelt down, one arm bent at the elbow, barrel of his massive .45 resting on his shoulder. It was smoking, freshly fired, a deadshot even while upside-down. When the being uttered noises of displeasure, Dante stood and turned in one smooth movement, gun trained on it. When another emerged from the muck, and then a third, he calmly drew the second gun, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Cute."

 

Leon hadn't expected the old man to just suddenly appear, nor did he expect that disgusting makeshift chainsaw to cut into the muscle between his neck and shoulder. It bit right into the thick scar tissue, right where he'd been caught by, yes, another chainsaw, back in Spain. It ached on occasion, usually after a rigorous round at the gym. Now, it screamed in pain, his arm tensed like a vise. His other arm raised up, his finger pulled the trigger. The barrel had met just under the man's jawline, and the round exited through the top of his skull. That seemed to give him barely a moment of pause, just long enough to dash out of range, the chainsaw pulling out of his shoulder and leaving it throbbing. It hadn't gone too deep, thankfully, missing his collarbone entirely, but it was enough to leave his arm hanging limp at his side.

The old man recovered alarmingly quick- a bullet through the head hadn't stopped him? He charged at Leon, lifting the chainsaw high with a hoarse battle cry. Leon fired a second time, a third, aiming for the man's eyes. Four bullets left. The old man was still standing, though now blind. Save the bullets, make a run for it, and find someplace to try to recover. He had no med kit, no painkillers, not even a fucking Band-aid. Wasting his bullets in a fight he had no real chance of winning, he might as well sign his own death certificate.

He took the chance to run, gun hand pressed to his shoulder. He burst through the door, down the carpeted stairs, towards the exit. He was met with hot, damp air, and a pitch black sky. Another storm was coming. That only seemed to make his shoulder throb more. He forced his legs to move, heading for the nearest source of shelter; a run-down, muddy trailer in the middle of the yard. So, he hadn't actually found freedom, but being outside, away from that crazy fucker, he'd take it.

Someone lived there. It had power, a radio, but more importantly, a lock on the door. "Sorry, whoever, gotta borrow your digs for a minute," he said to no one. He collapsed on the tiny bed with a wince, a hand clamped over the wound. Soon, he'd begin to feel the effects of blood loss, unless he found a way to patch himself up. His eyes wandered about the interior, searching for anything that could serve a makeshift bandage. There was a tacky bra clipped to a hanger in the open wardrobe, and a pile of dirty clothing beneath, not at all suitable, nor appropriate. Blood was trailing down his arm in steady streams, time was short and he really didn't want to end up passing out, and ultimately dying, on someone else's bed, in a dingy trailer in the yard of some hellhouse.

In the corner, on top of the television, an unassuming green glass bottle. Medical disinfectant. As expected, it burned like the dickens when he poured it on, but it lessened his chances of infection. Gripping his shoulder, he caught sight of his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Pale faced, hair damp with sweat, fingers red-slick, he looked like hell, but that was quickly pushed out of mind. He watched, eyes wide with disbelief, as his shoulder began to knit together, not entirely unlike how Dante's would. He watched as muscle reconnected, and skin smoothed, not a trace of scar tissue left behind. Even the old scar from Spain was gone.

His body chose that moment to give out, eyes rolling back in his head and knees buckling, leaving him in a heap on the floor.


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My bad for not updating sooner, hit writer's block something fierce. Enjoy. :)

He came to after the rain had started, pounding at the windows and the roof, ringing in his ears. No, it wasn't the rain, but real ringing. A phone. His muscles ached only faintly as he pulled himself up, and the headache was gone. Surprisingly powerful stuff, that medical shit. He grabbed the receiver, and a low, female voice greeted him.

"You're not Ethan," she drawled, as if expecting him. "But you're in the same boat. You wanna get out of here? You listen to me."

"Who the fuck is Ethan? And who are you?"

"Zoe. Listen up. My family's beyond saving from this, but you're not. Get out of here before she gets to you. There's a mine below, it leads back to the basement. Through there, you go out the door you came in, and you don't look back."

"What about you?"

"Don't worry about me, I have a way out. That's what Ethan's for." She hung up. Goddamnit. He tossed down the receiver and faced the door.

A mine. Well shit. First, a family full of batshit crazies, now he's gotta go on a scavenger hunt for the entrance to a mine, might as well kick him while he's down. Dante was still missing, too.

"Fuck!" He threw the door open, the gun a familiar, even comforting weight at his hip, and he knew he could do this. He'd survived worse, Spain had been the worst- 3 days without sleep, or even eating, all while harboring a parasite nestled between his lungs.

As for Dante, well, he'd come out of this fine. Dante proved hard, if not impossible, to kill. Run through the chest with his own sword more than a couple of times, and he'd even mentioned getting shot in the face once. Whatever the house could throw at him, he was stronger.

The yard was fairly straightforward. A path to the right, a staircase to the left, and a gate right behind the trailer, he discovered. All he had to do was choose the correct direction. The middle path was off the table, he could see through the gates that it ended at a greenhouse, nothing but marshlands behind that. Left, or right, flip a coin. He chose the right.

He'd chose wrong, the right path took him to a large, yet decaying house, where the floors had sunken, and the structure was waterlogged unto growing a thick layer of moss. Even worse, swarms of fucking bugs the size of golf balls. Strange, though, they parted as he passed, buzzing angrily in his ears and swooping dangerously close to his eyes. Not a single one actually touched him, though.

He moved with caution, the regular creaking of soggy wood disguising even his own footsteps. Should he be surprised by someone around the next corner, all bets were off. He had the knife ready, gripped tight in one hand. Every alarm in his head was ringing, nothing good came out of a silent, seemingly empty house, not in his line of work. Through one door, he came to a T-split. He crouched, covered by a wooden crate, and listened. Uncomfortable quiet, only punctuated with groaning wood. Not even the slight creak of floorboards underfoot. He risked it, creeping his way along the wall, rising up to grasp the doorknob.

The door flew open, and a hand shot out, grabbing him by the strap of his Kevlar vest. _Marguerite._ He'd heard the old man yelling that name, his wife. Figures I'd eventually have a run-in with her, he thought numbly, as she jerked him into the room.

He was roughly slammed against the wall, the back of his head knocking soundly against it. Briefly, he saw stars. She was screeching at him, calling him a _sunnovabitch,_ accusing him of trying to disrupt their perfect little family.

"But that's just fine," she crooned, her stained teeth bared in a nasty, too-wide smile. "You're part of this family now, once you accept her gift. She's already-"

He shut her up with a right hook, one that sent her stumbling back, the backs of her knees catching a plastic milk crate. She began spewing colorful threats at him, but Leon barely heard them. He was staring at his hand, flexing his fingers. No way was she that easy to take on, even without his previous injuries. No way.

She was on him again, dirty fingernails digging into his bicep. She made to throw him, but he only stumbled. She was pissed, but a flash of panic crossed her face, only briefly. Leon still caught it.

_"Accept her fucking gift!"_ She screamed, planting a hand in the middle of Leon's chest, and shoving him hard. That time, he went down, skidding on his back a distance. He scrambled up, but Marguerite had already crossed the room, grabbed him again, and rammed him into the opposite wall with inhuman strength. Her elbow was pressed into his solar plexus, leaving him gasping.

"LIttle Evie's got plans for you, boy," she crooned into his ear. Her breath was rank, what little air he could gulp down even tasted how it smelled. "Once that shitcock Ethan's out of the picture, we all got plans for you." She let go, let him slide to the floor, and left him on his ass, wheezing.

By the time he caught his breath enough to look up, she was disappearing behind the door, the light of her lantern slimming into just a sliver along the floorboards. Then, it faded, and she was gone.

He stood on shaky legs, a deep ache just below his sternum. He knew it'd fade, quicker than he was comfortable with. It was just like Spain, but without the castles and the cults. He looked down at his hand again, breathing easier, legs sturdy already. Just like Spain.

When he looked up next, it was to a little girl. Long, dark hair, pale eyes, little black boots.

" _He_ doesn't want to be my daddy, so he can just **die**."

Leon blinked, and she was gone.

" _You_ can be my daddy, instead."


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Ten chapters in, and shit's about to get real after this.

"You recognize me, don't you?" Dante didn't even try to hide his smirk, as he and Jack circled the room. Ebony and Ivory were both drawn, a bullet chambered in each. "What's it been, twenty, thirty years?"

"Ain't as scrawny as you used to be," Jack flexed his fingers around the long handle of a ghastly weapon, a distorted version of a paint roller, spiked and rusted. If Dante hadn't known the seriousness of the circumstances, he'd have laughed.

"Yer more gray than you used t'be," Dante let his words lengthen, his twang shine, he was back in his childhood homeland, after all. No point in trying to sound less 'southern' there. "Crazier'n shit, too, you drink the Kool-Aid?"

Jack gave a chuckle, something dark and menacing. "I found new life, boy, me and my family. We found immortality, our Evie gave us a damned gift!" He pressed a finger to his temple, "I've been killed twice, but I can't die."

"Funny, neither can I, but I reckon I c'n find a way t'kill you." Dante raised one of his massive guns, aimed it at Jack. "I don't do no farm work no more," he drawled, "I upgraded."

They faced each other, Dante's ice blue eyes boring into pale grey. Neither moved a muscle, but both were poised to strike. Who dared make the first move? The few moments they stood across from one another seemed to stretch into eternity, a tense pause, one that would, no doubt, result in an explosion, and that time bomb was ticking down fast.

Jack risked the first move, confident in his actions, his newfound immortality fueling his decisions. He swung the weapon at the hunter, its reach long enough to make contact. It would have made contact, had Dante been slower, had he been human. The spikes hit open air, and before Jack could straighten and recollect, Dante appeared at his side, the cold barrel of his gun pressed under the shelf of his chin.

Shit, was all Jack could think, as he reared back, bullet grazing his chin. "Christ, boy, you ain't jokin'!" He cackled, ramming into Dante with his shoulder, just like he did in college football. He'd been lorded as a beast on the field, but when Dante barely budged, Jack quickly began to realize how deep in shit-creek he was. Dante wasn't Ethan. Dante was thick with muscle, taller than himself, and even appeared immune to Eveline's gift.

Jack stepped back, rolling his shoulders. Weapon tossed aside, he curled his hands into fists, holding them up, much like his older brother had taught him in their youth. "C'mon, _boy_."

Dante's smirk widened a fraction, and he tossed aside his own firearms. "Now yer talkin'," he drawled, shaking out his arms. His biceps were easily twice the size of Jack's, knuckles pronounced with scar tissue, he'd had more than a couple rides through the rodeo. While Jack had aged, Dante only seemed to flourish, packing on muscle where there hadn't been much the last time they'd seen each other.

When Dante's fist met Jack's face, Jack knew that would be his very last tussle. Evie couldn't save him, not from this. Dante hit like a freight train, the mycelium in his system began to panic. He felt his cheekbone shatter, bone splintering behind his eye, and then vision went out. One eye down in one hit, but for a fleeting moment, he swore, with his good eye, he saw a ghastly pair of horns sprouting from Dante's head. He wasn't entirely sure what the gift was capable of, but he was sure as shit certain it wasn't designed to handle the ungodly strength and the intense _heat_ Dante was giving off.

How ironic, though, how Jack had felled Ethan with a single punch, now Dante had done the very same. Dante advanced upon him for a second round, and he found he'd been right. There were horns, dark, cracked horns, curling out and up. Devil's horns. "Well, fuck a damned duck," he chuckled bitterly. Claws scratched at his neck, behind his ear, when Dante cradled his head in one palm. His other, blackened, fingers ending in shiny black claws, was curled into a fist, raised and ready.

"Do me a favor, as an old friend," the devil's voice was distorted, and his eyes burned the color of flames. "Stay the fuck down, or next time's gonna be a lot worse."

 

Jack would be back, Dante knew he would. So long as whatever it was that had a hold on him kept a hold on him, Jack would just get back up. Never finding peace. What a shitty un-life that was, one that even his custom made bullets wouldn't end. Not until the source was gone. This Evie, she had to go, and preferably soon. Leon was still out there, alone, with the rest of the family. That didn't bode well, and he found himself walking faster, Jack's blood drying on his hands.

Faster and faster, until he was running, through dumpy hallways and down broken staircases. Who was he hoping to find first? This mysterious Evie, to end her, to free the souls of those poor bastards? Leon, before he ended up dead, or worse? There was no saving the Bakers, they were far too gone, too tainted, all that remained were husks, housing something dark and twisted, something that needed to be crushed and erased.

He stopped on the porch. The rain was still coming down, heavy, fat droplets that had turned the yard into muck. But through the rain, something was coming, and coming fast. "Shit," Dante all but leaped off the porch, catching Leon in his arms as they collided, Leon's boots skidding through the slick grass and mud. "Baby, it's me," he gripped Leon's shoulders, "It's me."

Recognition replaced panic, and Leon let out a heavy, relieved breath, both hands clutching at the front of Dante's tattered Motorhead shirt. "Knew you'd be okay," he panted, dropping his forehead to Dante's collarbone. "Shoulda never left you behind." Dante hushed him, giving his shoulders an affectionate squeeze.

"Leave that fer later, we gotta git. Plan's changed, looks like I got a job of my own here."

"Evie?"

"You heard of her, too?" He drew away, "Jack's done in, whoever she is, she's got her claws in 'em, deep. Ain't no reasoning with these folks anymore."

"Ran into his wife, she mentioned a fucking gift from the girl, guessing that's what turned them. You have a plan? My area of expertise ends with the walking dead."

Dante shrugged, "Do I ever? Something always works, even if I gotta tap into the ol' Sparda power well. Ain't been nothin' I can't kill, yet."

Leon brushed a hand through his wet hair, "Well, let's get on with it. There's a survivor here, guy named Ethan, and someone named Zoe, she doesn't seem effected by any of this. Sooner we end this, the better for all of us. If I can find a radio, I can call in for a rescue party."

Both found themselves staring at the staircase beyond the metal door. Wherever it led, it had to be the next step. One more closer to an end, one that would see them out of this alive, if Fate was willing.

"When we get back home, remind me to retire," Leon said, with no lack of bitterness. He checked his gun, four bullets, he hadn't been fortunate enough to come across any more. He'd have to rely on Dante, and whatever luck he had left.

God-fucking-damnit.


End file.
